She made her veil from hospital sheets,
and dragged it through the bloodstained streets.
Her heels were wrapped in bandage bows,
and her bouquet hissed when it chose.
She carved her vows in lipstick red,
on a clipboard stolen from the dead.
She whispered “yes” to an empty chair,
then kissed a scalpel in the air.
In her duct tape wedding dress,
she danced alone and called it “blessed.”
Twirling in a shattered mess,
married to her own distress.
They threw rice laced with pills and shame,
and someone sang the bride’s full name.
But she just laughed and bit her tongue,
swore she’d be forever young.
She slow-danced with a morphine drip,
then took a bow and blew a kiss.
The groom was gone, or never real,
but the mirror clapped with pride and zeal.
She said, “I do,” to the voices inside,
broke the cake with a surgical slide.
And when they screamed, “It’s all pretend!”
she lit the aisle and smiled again.
Now every five years, on that day,
she walks the halls in disarray.
Still humming hymns in major stress,
in her duct tape wedding dress.
A stitched-up yes in a world of less.
She wed the storm, divorced the sane,
and kissed the sky through windowpane.